On the Steamy Side (30 page)

He loved that after al the things they’d done together, the ways they’d learned to please each other, she still fumbled over what to call it.

“Absolutely,” Devon told her. “In all fairness, I think you should give me a teaser now, just to be sure my head’s in the right place.” He trailed a hand down her front, fingers nimbly slipping into her bodice to find warm skin.

“That’s what would be fair, huh?” Her eyelids had slid to half-mast, her breath starting to come faster.

Christ, they were good together.

“Oh, sure,” he breathed, bending down to mouth the words into the pale column of her neck.

“Common decency is dictating the whole thing.”

The couch was close, but the desk was closer.

A few—embarrassingly few—hot, sweaty minutes later, and Devon was feeling quite a bit looser. Lilah twisted her flyaway hair into a knot on top of her head and gave him a smug smile. Perfectly permissible, under the circumstances. Devon eyed the red mark his mouth had left on her throat and felt more than a little smug himself.

“Feeling better?” she asked solicitously.

“I think it gets better every time, actually.”

She pinked up enough to match the hickey, but her expression was pleased. “There’s that silver tongue again. I can’t imagine how I ever thought I’d be able to live in your house, see you every day, and not succumb.”

“I’m pretty wonderful, it’s true,” Devon said. He frowned. “Let’s just hope the diners and critics tonight agree.”

“They will,” Lilah promised. “Everyone who eats your food tonight—they’re going to be able to tell how much of yourself you poured into it. And take it from someone who found out the hard way.” She wrapped her arms around him and leaned up for one last, soft kiss.

“When you give yourself over to something, Devon Sparks, it’s beyond the scope of mortal man or woman to resist.”

Lilah fairly danced back upstairs and out to the front of the house. She collected Tucker along the way and hustled him into the booth Grant had reserved for them.

Everything looked perfect! Grant had truly outdone himself with the décor. He’d lined the back of every booth with beautiful, dainty rectangular planters growing velvety green grass. The visual effect was simple and elegant, with a playful edge that was perfect for the event.

He’d taken down the regular art from the walls, stowing the copper vine sconces in the pantry, and replaced them with the framed final projects from Tucker’s now-defunct art class.

That had been Lilah’s idea, and as she gazed around the walls at the amazing, colorful pieces created by a handful of fourth-graders, she knew she’d made the right call.

No one could look at these drawings, the talent and potential hanging all around them, and not be moved.

Hopefully, they’d be moved in the direction of their pocketbooks.

The dining room was filling up with eager guests, so many you couldn’t stir them with a stick, all dressed in what would’ve been, back home, their Sunday best. Here in New York, Grant said it was called “smart/casual.” Lilah was glad he’d talked her into buying this racy, purple number she was wearing. It was more fitted, and definitely lowercut in the front, than anything she’d ever owned before, but the way Devon had reacted when he saw it made Lilah sit up straight in her seat, the angle of her head high and confident.

Even if she felt like it was only being held up and over her chest with a lick and a promise, so long as this dress made Devon Sparks, womanizer extraordinaire, fall on her like a starving man on a dish of apple pie, Lilah could hold her own in any smart, casual crowd.

Her chest constricted as she remembered what he’d said about the way he saw her. Even more than his words, the memory of his open expression and the honesty in his eyes made her heart feel too big for her ribcage.

Or maybe that was the dress. It was a scoche tight across the bust.

The waiters circulated with trays of canapés while the arriving guests milled around the bar, ordering drinks and chatting. Some people found their tables and sat down while others mingled, but everywhere she looked, anticipation colored the air.

The moans and sighs of appreciation for the hors d’oeuvres probably helped twist that knot a little tighter, she mused with a grin.

Tucker, who’d been momentarily struck dumb by the glittering crowd of adults, suddenly found his voice as he gazed down at the amber glass charger in the center of his place setting.

“Hey,” he said. “There’s my drawing!”

The menus he’d designed were printed on lovely, heavy card stock about the size of a paperback book.

Lilah and Devon had col aborated on the wording of the tasting menu, but the border was Tucker’s province. Lilah had to choke back a happy sob the first time she saw it.

Tucker’s inspiration was clearly their evening catching fireflies in Central Park. He’d done an ink sketch of intertwined leaves coiling around the outside of the menu card. Lightning bugs peeped out from the curlicued vines, some mere specks with wings and lines of light radiating from them, others large enough to have funny, sweet little faces partially obscured by the greenery.

No two faces were alike, and the longer Lilah studied the drawing, the more she noticed resemblances between Tucker’s fireflies and the Market crew. One had a thatch of black hair, for instance, while another sported Violet’s signature blonde. The details were tiny but unmistakable to anyone acquainted with the cast of characters in the kitchen.

The bottom left corner was Lilah’s favorite—it featured three lightning bugs in close formation: one with ringlets corkscrewing out from its head, one with a perfect wave of dark hair and even a suggestion of cheekbones, and a smaller bug hovering between them.

Looking at it now, Lilah felt her throat thicken with tears. Every place setting had one, centered beneath the see-through charger plate. It was beautiful.

“Your dad wanted to show them to you, but he had to get in the kitchen and start things rolling,” she explained, getting her feelings under control. “Do you like how they turned out?” Tucker picked up his charger and stared at the table, then turned his wide eyes—younger, more unguarded than she’d ever seen them—on Lilah. “Wait. Lolly—is everyone gonna see it? When they sit down, oh, man, they’re all gonna see it.”

Suddenly worried, she put a hand on his arm. “Is that okay, sugar bean?”

“Okay?” A huge grin broke across his face. “It’s completely awesome! I’m going to be famous!” Oh, yes. He was his daddy’s boy, all right.

The thought made Lilah’s heart pound, because it reminded her of the other big reason for her excitement tonight. She almost rolled her eyes at herself. As if contributing to a menu at a fancy restaurant where the man she loved was about to make his big comeback to the culinary world wasn’t enough!

And yet, there was more. Because Lilah had figured out the perfect way to cap off the triumph of what would be, she was certain, a perfect evening.

She’d done some digging through Devon’s home office—for such a good cause, her conscience barely even whimpered—and found the contact information for someone named Connor Sparks.

One slightly awkward phone call later, she knew Devon had a younger brother who missed him, and she had a New Jersey number where Connor said their parents could be reached.

Fingers crossed so hard for luck that they were nearly too numb to dial, Lilah had punched in the number and held her breath until she got an answering machine. A weird combination of relief and disappointment had her leaving a longer, more rambling message than she meant to, but the upshot of it was that Devon’s parents were invited to the fundraiser dinner.

It was exactly like directing a play. Everything was in place. She’d made her choices, put the actors in place, set the scene. Now all she could do was sit back and watch as it played out onstage.

So when Jess approached their table with a twinkle in his eyes and a tray full of pecan tartlets, Lilah grinned at him and held out her hand.

The miniature tart was still warm, the all-butter crust flaky and perfect. Lilah closed her eyes and chewed happily, making a mental note to compliment Violet on her pastry-dough skills. The crust was almost as good as Aunt Bertie’s!

Anyone looking at the tartlet would be expecting the familiar dessert, a burst of gooey brown-sugar sweetness. But Devon had played with that expectation by taking Lilah’s recipe for pecan pie and turning it into a salty little surprise using smoked pecans and a touch of kitchen wizardry.

The earthiness of the pecans was accented by a base of duxelles, a lovely thing Devon had introduced Lilah to, involving finely diced mushrooms, onions, shallots, and herbs sautéed in butter and reduced to a rich, savory paste.

The shiny, sticky sherry glaze over the pecans imparted a hint of sour to cut all the richness, and Lilah fought back her own indecent moan of satisfaction. A tug on her sleeve brought her out of the haze.

She looked down to see Tucker making big, starving-orphan eyes up at her.

“More?” he said hopefully.

Jess, who’d been smart enough not to move away yet, laughed and held the tray where Tucker could get to it. “I thought you might want seconds, and these are going fast. People are snarfing ’em up faster than I can hustle back to the kitchen for more.”

“That’s a good sign, right?” Oh, please, Lilah prayed. Let this evening go well.

Jess winked. “The best.”

God must’ve been in the mood to heed the prayers of shameless hussies, because people sat down and were poured wine, and the first course, a variation on Billy Perez’s cold corn salad served on crisp, bitter endive leaves, was sampled. Lilah took in the big smiles and transported expressions on the diners’ faces. The night seemed to be going about as perfectly as possible.

The only fly in the soup was that no matter how she scrutinized her fellow guests, none of them looked the way she’d imagined Phil and Angela Sparks would look. Not that there were any pictures to go by in Devon’s apartment, but surely she’d be able to see a family resemblance.

She looked at Tucker, kicking the table leg and drawing on the back of his menu, already improving on his design. He couldn’t be more obviously related to Devon if he were a clone.

Genes that strong had to come from somewhere. Lilah was betting either Phil or Angela had those trademark ice-blue eyes, but no one in the dining room seemed to. She was about to get up and find Grant at the host stand, quiz him about any empty tables, but someone pinged a fork against a wine glass, and the whole room quieted.

Devon emerged from the kitchen, resplendent in his pristine white chef’s jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Clearly at ease in front of a crowd, he gave a charming smile and launched into a short introduction fol owed by a rundown of the Center for Arts Education’s mission.

He concluded with an impassioned call for support of a well-rounded education in New York City schools that had Lilah reaching for her napkin to dab surreptitiously at her eyes.

She was such a sentimental fool.

Lilah distracted herself by leaning down to explain to Tucker that his dad was trying to get people to chip in enough to keep art classes going at schools like his. He rolled his eyes, said, “Duh,” and went back to his drawing.

All righty, then.

A swell of applause signaled the end of Devon’s speech. A representative from the Center for Arts Education stood up and took over, thanking Devon for hosting the event, while Devon smiled graciously and hoped that everyone enjoyed the meal.

He stopped by Lilah and Tucker’s table on his way back to the kitchen.

“How do you think it’s going?”

“Excellently,” Lilah said, forcing a brightness she couldn’t quite feel with the disappointment in Devon’s no-show father weighing her down. “The food is wonderful. You’re all outdoing yourselves back there.”

“Jess said he almost ran out of pecan pies,” Tucker informed him. “Are you going to run out of the date rolls? Because I want three. No, four. I want four!”

“Tucker! Don’t be a pig,” Lilah said.

Devon just laughed, a big, happy sound that made the four tables closest to them look around and smile.

“Don’t worry, Tuck,” he said easily. “I’ll save a couple extras for you. As payment for doing such an awesome job with the menus.”

“I’m going to be famous,” Tucker replied in all seriousness. “I’ma have my own TV show and everything.”

“Trust me, kiddo, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Tucker shrugged and went back to his drawing and diligent kicking of the table leg.

Lilah shared an amused look with Devon, who twisted his mouth up and said, “I’ve got to get back. It seems to be going smoothly, which of course means any second it’s all going to fall apart like a soufflé collapsing in a hot oven.”

But through the next six courses, nothing went wrong that Lilah could see. The kitchen banged out fried chicken livers with a chipotle maple dipping sauce, crunchy on the outside and smooth and rich on the inside; a terrine of smoked salmon, bread crumbs, capers, red onion, and crème fraîche, which was Devon’s take on the traditional New York bagel with lox; pan-fried quail with a fresh white grape juice reduction; soy honey-glazed short ribs; and Delmonico pudding for dessert. Lilah had argued against serving that pudding, since it was strictly a holiday treat in her family, but once Devon tasted the almond macaroons soaked in custard and meringue, he couldn’t be dissuaded from putting it on the menu. He substituted chopped crystallized ginger for the more traditional candied red-and-green pineapple topping and said, “There. Not just for Christmas anymore!” Lilah had to admit as she licked her spoon clean that Delmonico pudding made an excellent summer dessert. It was served chilled, rich and delicious with the fragrant sweet almond cookies dissolving in creamy vanilla custard. The macaroons retained some of their trademark sticky consistency; the custard layered into and over them provided the perfect smooth counterpoint. The topping was the only change Devon would allow to this particular recipe, since, in his words, they didn’t have time to waste trying to improve on perfection.